


All those radio bands (never made me feel)

by Kangoo



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creeper (band), M/M, actually not that shippy but trust me they gay, i love jared but he's a dick, i wish creeper would sponsor me, they're not named but they're here trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Evan is alone at a punk show, up until he isn't.





	All those radio bands (never made me feel)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://twitter.com/creepercultuk/status/1037631139886911489) tweet by Creeper (an amazing band you should absolutely check out right now, ideally as background music to this)
> 
> title from their song "Suzanne"
> 
> this has entirely been written as a way to familiarize myself with the characters before A Big Thing... if I manage to finish it lmao
> 
> no proofreading we die like men

Jared spends an inordinate amount of time coming up with harebrained scheme to make him appear _cool_ in the eyes of their peers. It’s kind of a hobby, kind of a coping mechanism, kind of an effort to erase years spent being a loser with no social life beyondan equally uncool family friend, but mostly it’s an exercise of futility. No one likes a try-hard — or maybe they just don’t like _Jared_.

Still, he keeps trying a little too hard, and usually Evan doesn’t mind following him on his wild chase for popularity. It’s one of the rare occasions he has of hanging out with Jared without him saying every few minutes that’s they’re not _really_ friends, just _family_ friends, and he’s just taking pity on Evan despite the dozens of _real_ friends he could be spending his time with.

But the issue is that in those situations, Evan is… kind of a last resort. As soon as Jared finds someone better to spend his time with, he drops him like a wet sock.

He convinced himself he doesn’t mind. After all, it’s not like he has any other friends; might as well spend whatever time he can with the one he has. And it doesn’t happen all that much: Jared cancels plans all the time, but usually it’s because he’s sick or his mom grounded him, not because he found someone else he’d rather hand out with.

That’s why, when Jared asked him to come to a punk show, Evan considered saying no. Jared doesn’t even _like_ punk rock; he just thinks it will make him look tough and edgy and give him some _street cred_ , in his own words. It’s very much not Evan’s scene either, if the polo shirts weren’t indication enough. But in the end he caved in, and his mom looked _so happy_ when he told her about going to a concert — even though he had to… withhold some information, like the kind of music it would be.

Which is how he ended where he is now, standing in front of a bar and staring at his phone.

**From: Jared**

hey r u already there

**To: Jared**

yes

**To: Jared**

where are you?

**From: Jared**

fuck

**From: Jared**

yea so

**From: Jared**

im not coming actually

**From: Jared**

im puking my guts rn

**From: Jared**

have fun

He logs off before Evan can reply.

His fingers hover over his screen as he considers sending the _you absolute dick_ burning on the tip of his tongue, but in the end he just sighs and puts his phone back in his pocket. There’s no point: it’s neither the first nor last time Jared will cancel plans last minutes, and it’s not like it’s his fault he got sick. Unless he’s actually going to some other party and doesn’t want to tell Evan for some reason — but he prefers not to think about this possibility.

This leaves him with quite the problem, though. His mom dropped him down the block — he didn’t want her to see the venue and ask about the leather jacket-wearing, mohawk-having people milling about — and she’s supposed to come get him after class, around 11 pm, so it’s not like he can call her now. He _could_ take the bus, but public transportation becomes a weird place after dark and he’s… not sure which is worse between that and going to a punk show alone.

Worst of all: the bouncer is staring at him. Maybe he’s acting shady (does he look like a drug dealer? _What_ does a drug dealer look like, anyway?) or maybe he’s waiting for him to finally get in, but he’s definitely staring.

He scuffs his shoe against the pavement and drums his fingers against his arm. What will they say if he leaves now? Will they think he’s an actual drug? He’s definitely going to look like some who got stood up, or who’s too afraid to get in. Which is _true_ , but he doesn’t want strangers to _know it_.

(Maybe Jared isn’t the only one who’s desperate to look cool.)

He has a choice. He can risk the bus; he can take an Uber; he can walk home, if needs be. Or he can get in.

A little voice inside his head — it sounds suspiciously like Dr. Sherman — whispers, _you need to get yourself out there, get out of your comfort zone_. He doesn’t even _have_ a comfort zone, he just has an uncomfortable zone and a slightly-less-uncomfortable zone, but apparently doing things he’s afraid of is good for his personal development or something.

Or maybe it’s the thought of Jared’s apologetic shrug that convinces him. The thought that he could be the _cool one_ , for once. He could come to school Monday and say, _yes I went and it was amazing_ , _you don’t know what you missed._

It probably won’t be that enjoyable, but he’s not above lying out of spite.

Spite is a powerful motivator, and added to the increasingly-judgmental stare of the doorman it finally convinces him to put his phone in his pocket. He steps out of his comfort zone and in front of the doorman, mustering a smile from the depth of his mounting anxiety.

He’s already having second thoughts. It’s— his first live show, the first time he gets into a bar, a lot of first times actually. He’s not sure he wants to do it anymore.

But the bouncer is already asking him for his ID, and he offers it with shaking fingers. It gets barely a cursory glance as the man checks his date of birth. He gives it back to Evan, takes his wrist — he almost recoils in surprise, but he’s frozen in place — and makes a cross on the back of his hand in one quick, practiced movement.

“No drinking,” he warns, watching him with narrowed eyes. Evan stammers an agreement, and he nods. “Have fun, kid.”

He swallows, throws his shoulders back and says, trying to come out as confident and mostly failing, “I- I will!”

He walks inside before he can get a reply. He’s not running away, per say, just— scuttling out of the situation. A strategic retreat.

And, finally, he’s inside.

It’s _packed_.

He winces, stepping to the side so he won’t be in the way of the door without having to step further _inside_. The noise in indescribable, like the mix of a high school cafeteria during lunch period and the ASMR version of an introverted recovering alcoholic’s worst nightmare. A few people are walking around the stage on the other end of the room, checking instruments and fiddling with amps, and it adds to the auditory chaos of so many people talking and drinking.

Yep, definitely having second thoughts.

Someone bumps into his shoulder, throwing a quick ‘sorry!’ as they walk inside, and he shakes out of his shock. It’s alright. It’s fine. He can do this. There are so many people, he doesn’t even have to talk to anyone; he can just… stand there. Alone. He’s just here for the music. It’s not like anyone’s going to be coming to talk to _him_ , right?

(In retrospect, he should have expected everyone else to be there for the music as well.)

The band finishes setting up and the noise of the crowd briefly falls to a murmur of anticipation. They look ghostly, dressed in all black in the dim purple lights of the stage, their faces shadowed or tilted down toward their instruments.

And then the music starts, and the crowd goes wild.

It’s obviously not this band’s first gig here: the people know them, and the first notes of the first song are enough to send them in a frenzy, screaming lyrics at the top of their lungs, their voices drowned out by the beat of the drums. There’s not enough space to dance but that’s not stopping them from trying, and Evan — still off-kilter from the onslaught of noise and light and words — is swept into the crowd by the collective movement.

It’s overwhelming, too loud and too fast, movement and people everywhere, music so loud it makes his bones rattle. The room is dark, the stage the only source of light, and so when he glances behind him toward the door he only sees the green exit sign and the sea of bodies separating him from it.

Oh god. He’s made a terrible mistake.

Thing is, Evan knows he’s not good with crowd, and he’s not good with new things, and he’s not good at dealing with either of those things on his own. He needs someone, a familiar face, someone to cling to when it gets Too Much.

And it gets Too Much _very quickly_.

The beat echoes in his chest like it’s been emptied out to leave place for the music. There are people all around him, pressed against him, elbows dumping into his back, voices singing offkey next to his ears. He’s trapped, too far from the more mellow edge of the crowd (how did he get there? How did he let himself be swept in like that?).

It’s too much, too soon, a maelstrom of musical chaos, he didn’t get to psych himself up and now he feels like he can’t breathe—

He closes his eyes like it will make them all disappear. It’s— not a great idea. With the haphazard, half-dancing, half-jumping movements of the crowd surrounding him, he’s not sure if the floor is moving or if he’s the one falling to the side, unbalance, off-kilter.

Someone bumps into him, or more like falls on top of him, and there must be an opening in the crowd because instead of stumbling into the people in front of him he pitches forward, and his eyes open in shock.

If he falls down he might _die_ , trampled to death by the enthusiastic public of a punk band. What a way to go. Flattened at his first live show.

But he doesn’t fall.

Fingers wraps around his wrist and yank him back to his feet. The change is so sudden he loses balance again, but he doesn’t fall far before his back hits someone’s chest. Their hands settles on his shoulders, steadying him, and they say — close to his ear to be heard over the music, “What the fuck, man?”

Evan turns his head to see them (him? The voice sounds masculine) but it’s too dark to make out much more than long hair and a frankly unfair height difference.

He gapes for a second, still reeling from his near-death experience, before replying with the first thing that comes to his mind.

“It’s my first time!” He shouts, hardly even hearing himself over the noise, and then immediately wants to slap himself for that stellar reply. Who _says_ that?

But— it does the job. He’s close enough to feel tension leaves the other man’s body — oh god he’s _so close_ , but his legs feel like jelly and he’s pretty sure he’s going to fall again if he’s not leaning on something or… someone.

A brief lull in the music allows him to hear the “yeah, that’s fair” muttered behind him, before the other asks him, louder: “You alright?”

He nods. Then, realizing it’s way too dark to see it, probably, he says, “Yeah?”, like a question, because he’s a dumbass apparently.

He’s pushed off his impromptu support but the other guy throws his arm around his shoulder before he can start to miss the contact — not that he does or anything, it was just… nice, you know?

He’s next to Evan now, and the crowd means they’re basically plastered against each other from hips to shoulder. His head tilts to the side and he yells, taken aback “Hansen?”

Oh god he knows who he is. Evan whips his head toward him, and says with just as much surprise and confusion, “ _Connor_?”

Should he be worried that Connor Murphy — Zoe’s brother, local troubled teen, threw a printer at a teacher once, _that_ Connor Murphy — knows his name? Usually people being aware of his existence is a good thing but then again. Is it really.

Connor’s eyes narrow and suddenly Evan finds himself being yanked through the crowd, Connor’s arm closer to a choke hold around his neck. He stumbles behind the other teen, wincing each time he collides with a stranger — which is every single second, and it’s only because he’s too surprised to talk that he doesn’t babble ‘sorry’s to each person Connor elbows out of the way.

Connor throws open a door and drags him what turns out to be the bathroom of the bar. Evan has about a second to be relieved as the noise outside fades into a loud but manageable rumble before Connor lets go of him like he’s been burned and whirls around, poking Evan in the chest hard enough to make him flinch.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Hansen?” He barks.

“I- what- Maybe I just like the music!” He says, and very carefully doesn’t cringe at how his voice breaks on the last word.

“No you don’t.”

He’s a bit miffed, irrational as it may be, that Connor would question him like that. “What, I’m not- _cool_ _enough_ for it?”

“There’s that, _yeah_ ,” Connor grits out, gesturing to his whole body — stopping with silent emphasis on the blue polo and cargo short he put on because he doesn’t have anything remotely grunge in his wardrobe. “And full offense, dude, but you looked fucking _terrified_ out there. So who put you up to this? My sister? Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have told her-”

“No one put me up to anything!” He cries out, frustrated. He crosses his arm over his chest defensively and frowns, staring down at his feet. Quieter, he adds, “Jared stood me up. We just wanted to-” even softer, grimacing at how stupid it sounds, he finishes with, “ _look cool_.”

Connor draws back. Evan glances up and finds him staring at him with confusion written on every trait of his face before he smooths his features into his usual mask of irritation. “A punk show… to look _cool_? _Really_? Why can’t you go for underage drinking like everyone else?”

He shrugs. “It was Jared’s idea.”

“Of course it was,” he says, sounding for all intent and purpose like he half-expected it to be all Jared’s fault.

The words are dismissive but lack his previous aggressiveness. When he looks up, Connor is leaning against the single sink, drumming his fingers against his crossed arms and staring off into space, deep in thoughts.

Now that he’s— somewhat pacified, Evan takes a moment to examine him. The solitary blue neon light buzzing on the ceiling casts his face in hard shadows, turning his pale skin an otherworldly blue. He doesn’t look out of place here, in this overly-graffitied bathroom, with muffled guitar screeching in the background. His black nail paint is chipped, his eyeliner smudged, his hair a tangled, sweaty mess like he’s spent the last hour passing his fingers through it to keep it out of his face. He looks the part of the rebellious teen sneaking out to a punk show; not like Evan, who’s never felt more out of place in his life — and he has felt out of place _a lot_ , basically uninterruptedly since sixth grade.

And then Connor turns and notices his scrutiny. Evan blinks and smiles awkwardly, trying to shake to embarrassment of being caught staring.

“ _What_?” Connor snaps.

“Nothing! Nothing, I just- you look good!” He freezes, grits his teeth and groans. “God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- well, yeah, of course you look good, you always do- not that I’d notice that, of course, it’s not like I stare at you a lot! Damn that’s so unconvincing- but it’s such a creepy thing to say, you barely know me- I’m sorry, am I rambling? I’m rambling, aren’t I.”

“Yeah,” he replies, drawing out the single word. “Chill out. I’m not gonna- hit you or anything. I’m not unhinged.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” he says truthfully. “I’m just- I have anxiety? And also I’ve just been dropped in the middle of a very rowdy crowd all on my own and might be freaking out a bit?”

“Make that a lot. _Breathe_ , dude, Jesus. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

Rather than irritated, Connor seems… mollified by his rambling. There’s nothing quite like word vomit to make you seem like less of a threat — not that he’s ever a threat to Connor, but well. It does help making him look harmless. Harmless and stupid.

He takes a gulp of air and lets it out slowly through his teeth. “Sorry.”

“You apologize a lot,” he states.

“I know! I’m sorry.”

The look Connor throws him seems faintly amused, so he’ll take it as a win.

They stay like that a while, Connor just looking at him while he gets his breathing under control. They sure are taking a while to get out of this bathroom, aren’t they? It’s a miracle no one barged in on them yet—

He glances at the door. Yup, locked. Connor just— locked the whole bathroom. Which isn’t a dick move at all when there are maybe a hundred piss-drunk people in the building.

“You feeling like going back in there?” Connor asks offhandedly. He’s taken his attention off Evan to poke at his face in the mirror.

“I-” He thinks about the absolute terror he felt, standing in that crowd alone, and nothing has ever felt as awful as the thought of going back there. But there definitely aren’t any more buses passing at this hour. He’s too broke for a taxi, so it will be walking or waiting outside for his mom — damn, there’s no way he can hide what this show was to her, is there? It’ll just be so damn obvious. While he’s having his small crisis, Connor is still waiting for a reply, so he gives him the truth. “I have to wait for my mom to come pick me up, so I can’t actually leave yet.”

“Fuck, that’s pathetic.” Someone pounds against the door, and Evan jumps, but he just ignores it. “Your _mom_ , really? That just negates the whole- _coolness factor_ of going to a punk show man.”

“I can’t drive.” He shrugs. “Also, coolness factor? Really?”

“Hey, you’re the one coming here to be cool.”

The pounding on the door gets increasingly louder as the music fades out, either for a break or because it’s already the end of this particular band’s time on stage. Connor rolls his eyes and, grabbing Evan by the wrist, barges out of the bathroom. He shoulders the man waiting outside it with a glare and strides off. Evan, just a second behind as he once again stumbles in his wake, sees the knowing look they get in response.

“This guy totally thought we fucked in there,” he tells Connor.

“Yeah, and?”

He shrugs. It makes him a bit uncomfortable, but Connor no-shits-given attitude is contagious, and he follows him without another word. He’s walking beside Evan rather than dragging him, which is a nice change, and he hasn’t released his wrist yet. Still, he’s taller than him by a pretty wide margin, so Evan has to jog every other step to keep pace with his freakishly long strides.

The current band is waving at the assembled public as they take their instruments off the stage, but Connor doesn’t spare them a glance as he directs them right toward the door. He navigates the crowded room easily and soon they’re stepping out, where he finally lets go of Evan.

“Huh-”

“I was only there for that band,” he says, already walking off. “Come on, I’ll drop you off, for your dignity’s sake.”

“I- You’re sure?”

“Wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t.”

That’s fair. Evan smiles and catches up to him with a jog. “Thank you, Connor,” he says, putting as much sincerity in the three words as he’s physically able to do. “I’m sorry I distracted you from the show.”

“Eh. They’ll be back next week, it’s no big deal.”

Evan nods. Silence stretches. Then, because Connor’s presence (and unexpected niceness) is apparently making him insane, but quietly, because he’s still terrified of him, he asks, “Could I- come with you?”

Connor whirls around. “What?”

He lifts his hands, glancing to the side. “I just- the music wasn’t bad, I think? I just- couldn’t focus with the whole freaking out thing. But if I have someone with me next time, then-”

“No but- With _me_?”

Evan doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he just smiles. Connor makes a face and look away again. “Stop that,” he says without heat. “Sure, yeah, you can come with me if you want. Whatever.”

His smile grows. Yeah, he’ll take him up on the offer.

He definitely feels cooler now. He’s got to keep going.

**From: Jared**

hey

**From: Jared**

sorry for that

**From: Jared**

i rly was sick af tho

**To: Jared**

It’s fine!

**To: Jared**

I had fun actually

**To: Jared**

So thanks :D

**From: Jared**

yeah right

**From: Jared**

wait seriously

**To: Jared**

^-^

**From: Jared**

evan wtf does that mean!!

**Author's Note:**

> they do go back together, they have a blast, and everything is fine and happy and full of punk music.
> 
> come yell at me about dead teenagers on [tumblr](https://youngster-monster.tumblr.com/)! Or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/absolyon)! i am everywhere


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